And be unco merry when you are but gay;
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away,
With Sandie, and Sawnie, and Jockey,
With Sawnie, and Jarvie, and Jockey.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune one _va toute_:
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few--
“I hold the odds--done, done, with you, with you:”
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace--
“My Lord, your Lordship misconceives the case:”
Doctors, who cough, and answer every misfortuner--
“I wish I’d been call’d in a little sooner:”
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty;
Come, end the contest here, and aid my party.
MISS CATLEY.
_Air._--_Ballinamony._
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack;
For sure I don’t wrong you, you seldom are slack,
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back;
For you ’re always polite and attentive,
Still to amuse us inventive,
And death is your only preventive:
Your hands and your voices for me.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?
MISS CATLEY.
And, that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?
MRS. BULKLEY.
Agreed.
MISS CATLEY.
Agreed.
MRS. BULKLEY.
And now, with late repentance,
Un-epilogu’d the Poet waits his sentence:
Condemn the stubborn fool who can’t submit
To thrive by flattery--though he starves by wit.
[_Exeunt._
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[54] A popular dancer at the Opera House, in 1773.
[Illustration: ANOTHER INTENDED EPILOGUE]
_To be spoken by Mrs. Bulkley._
There is a place--so Ariosto sings--
A treasury for lost and missing things;
Lost human wits have places there assign’d them--
And they who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where’s this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he; but _I_ affirm, the Stage--
At least, in many things, I think I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree:
Both shine at night--for, but at Foote’s alone.
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down:
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But, in this parallel, my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses:
To this strange spot, rakes, maccaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter’d wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the _Ballet_, and calls for _Nancy Dawson_.
The gamester, too, whose wit’s all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk,[55] too, with angry phrases stor’d--
As, “Dam’me, Sir!” and “Sir, I wear a sword!”--
Here lesson’d for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense--for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribes here wanting an adviser,
Our Author’s the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment--the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature:
Yes, he’s far gone: and yet some pity fix;
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[55] The ruffian of the streets, in the 18th century.
[Illustration: EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”]
_Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley, in the character of Miss Hardcastle._
Well! having STOOPED TO CONQUER with success,
And gain’d a husband without aid from dress,--
Still, as a barmaid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquer’d him, to conquer you:
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty barmaids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, compos’d to please;
“We have our _exits_ and our _entrances_.”
The first Act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of everything afraid;
Blushes when hir’d, and with unmeaning action:
“I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.”
Her second Act displays a livelier scene,--
The unblushing barmaid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters,
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters.
Next, the scene shifts to town, and there she soars,
The chop-house toast of ogling _connoisseurs_.
On ’squires and cits she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers’ hearts--
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
Even common-councilmen forget to eat.
The fourth Act shows her wedded to the ’squire,
And Madam now begins to hold it higher;
Pretends to taste, at operas cries _caro_,
And quits her _Nancy Dawson_ for _Che faro_;
Dotes upon dancing, and in all her pride,
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
Till, having lost in age the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
Such, through our lives the _eventful history_--
The fifth and last Act still remains for me:
The barmaid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for Bayes.[56]
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[56] The name of “Bayes,” which Buckingham (1671) bestowed upon Dryden,
became a synonyme for a dramatic critic.
[Illustration: EPILOGUE TO “THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.”[57]]
As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure,
To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure--
Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend,
For epilogues and prologues, on some friend,
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,
And make full many a bitter pill go down:
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
And teas’d each rhyming friend to help him out.
“An Epilogue--things can’t go on without it;
It could not fail, would you but set about it.”
“Young man,” cries one--a bard laid up in clover--
“Alas! young man, my writing days are over;
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw; not I:
Your brother Doctor there, perhaps may try.”
“What, I? dear Sir,” the Doctor interposes;
“What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!
No, no, I’ve other contests to maintain;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane.[58]
Go, ask your Manager.” “Who? me? Your pardon;
These things are not our forte at Covent Garden.”[59]
Our Author’s friends, thus plac’d at happy distance,
Give him good words, indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight, at some new play,
At the pit door stands elbowing away;
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise;
He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since, then, unhelp’d, our bard must now conform
“To ’bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,”
Blame where you must, be candid where you can,
And be each critic the GOOD-NATURED MAN.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[57] “The Author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at
Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is
here offered owes all its success to the graceful manner of the Actress
who spoke it.”
[58] Where the College of Physicians formerly stood.
[59] Mr. B. Corney says:--“Colman, the manager of Covent Garden
Theatre, had then written about ten prologues and epilogues: Garrick,
the joint-patentee of Drury Lane Theatre, had written about sixty.”
[Illustration: ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. ----.[60]]
Ye muses, pour the pitying tear,
For Pollio snatch’d away;
Oh! had he liv’d another year--
He had not died to-day.
Oh! were he born to bless mankind,
In virtuous times of yore,
Heroes themselves had fall’n behind--
Whene’er he went before.
How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep;
Even pitying hills would drop a tear--
If hills could learn to weep.
His bounty in exalted strain
Each bard might well display,
Since none implor’d relief in vain--
That went reliev’d away.
And, hark! I hear the tuneful throng
His obsequies forbid;
He still shall live, shall live as long--
As ever dead man did.
FOOTNOTES:
[60] A burlesque elegy.
[Illustration: EPILOGUE WRITTEN FOR MR. CHARLES LEE LEWES.]
_To be spoken in the character of Harlequin, at his Benefit._
Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense;
I’d speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips’d the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
[_Takes off his mask._
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps--
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill’d the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu’d!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses;
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below, the trap-door demons rise,
And from above, the dangling deities.
And shall I mix in this unhallow’d crew?
May rosin’d lightning blast me, if I do![61]
No--I will act--I’ll vindicate the stage;
Shakspere himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The madd’ning monarch revels in my veins!
Oh! for a Richard’s voice to catch the theme:
“Give me another horse! bind up my wounds--soft--’twas but a dream,”
Ay, ’twas but a dream--for now there’s no retreating;
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
’Twas thus that Æsop’s stag--a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless--
Once on the margin of a fountain stood,
And cavill’d at his image in the flood.
“The deuce confound,” he cries, “these drumstick shanks;
They neither have my gratitude nor thanks;
They ’re perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head--yes, yes, I have a head.
How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns!--I’m told horns are the fashion now.”
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish’d, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew;
“Hoicks! hark forward!” came thundering from behind;
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind;
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length, his silly head, so priz’d before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself--like me.
[_Taking a jump through the stage door._
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[61] Stage-lightning.
THE END.
EDMUND EVANS, ENGRAVER AND PRINTER, RAQUET COURT, FLEET STREET
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not
changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Poems of Oliver Goldsmith, by Oliver Goldsmith